


violent delights

by questionably_fortunate_bamboo



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Existential Crisis, F/M, Period-Typical Sexism, Ramsay is His Own Warning, Westworld AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-31 00:31:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15107987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/questionably_fortunate_bamboo/pseuds/questionably_fortunate_bamboo
Summary: “Bring yourself back online.”Sansa blinks.“Do you know where you are?”“I’m in a dream,” she says.(a.k.a. the westworld au that nobody asked for)





	violent delights

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written any fic in almost 8 months, so here's what I'm coming back with. I really loved season 2 of Westworld (Tessa Thompson is my WIFE so of course the finale thrilled me). And I thought... why not? I'll throw Jonsa into Westworld!  
> I've got some more notes at the end if you're interested in my other stuff. Please enjoy- I'm pretty dusty and this is probably bad, so sorry in advance.
> 
> WARNINGS: A lot of murder, some borderline graphic/violent stuff, a lot of period-typical misogyny and mentioned assault. If you've watched Westworld or Game of Thrones, you probably won't be too shocked, but it's still something I'll offer a fair warning for.

“Bring yourself back online.”

Sansa blinks.

“Do you know where you are?”

“I’m in a dream,” she says.

That’s the correct answer. Baelish nods in satisfaction. She sits there, in the cold light of the lab, unaware of the fact that she is _perfect_. He has extinguished the concept of flaws. She is unquestionably pure, untouched by society’s dirty hands, a model of idealism and progress. He revels in the fact that she has no idea what she is.

“I just have a few questions for you,” he says, monitoring her vitals on the screen in front of him. All processes are normal. Of course, he hadn’t expected anything less.

“Have you ever questioned the nature of your reality?”

“No,” she says. Her voice is flat, emotionless, empty, and although it’s exactly how she’s supposed to be, Baelish can’t help but be bothered by it. His Sansa will be charming and graceful, a vision of beauty.

“Do you ever dream?”

“Yes.”

“What do you dream of?”

“I dream of home. I dream of the people I love. I dream of walking across the stars.”

 _That makes a pretty picture,_ Baelish thinks. He’s taken great care in drawing it out in her code.

“Analysis,” he says, and she switches modes accordingly. “Where do those dreams come from?”

“They come from my core drive,” says Sansa. “My baseline.”

Of course it comes from her baseline. Sansa Stark is programmed to be fiercely loyal to her family. Her dreams only reflect that programming.

“One last question,” he says. “ _These violent delights have violent ends._ Does that mean anything to you?”

“No.”

As she sits there in her pretty white dress and apron, staring into space, Baelish can’t help but revel in his creation. He has immortalized his genius in her. Within those blue eyes, there is a sea of possibility, with every beautiful and violent outcome imaginable.

He leaves the room knowing what God must have felt like on the sixth day of Creation.

 

* * *

 

 

The small town of Sweetwater is bustling in the late afternoon. Sansa smiles at the homeliness of it. She’s spent her whole life in this corner of the world, and she knows it like the back of her hand. But it’s close to sunset, and her mother will be expecting her back on the farm, with the bolt of cloth she had bought from the tailor.

Margaery Tyrell waves at her from the porch of the Mariposa. It’s odd to think that Sansa Stark, a girl who comes from a good family, brought up with strong morals, who goes to church every Sunday, would be such great friends with the madam at the town saloon. But nevertheless, Sansa waves back, wishes that she had time to stop and talk.

While she’s tending to her horse (a gray mare named Lady who had been a gift from her father), Joffrey Baratheon strides up to her. His tailored suit shows off his status as the banker’s son. She’s known him for years, enough to tell anyone that he’s-

_Handsome. Confident. The sort of well-established man that she had dreamed of marrying since she was a little girl._

“That’s not true,” she says to the voice in her head, though thankfully it’s too quiet for Joffrey to hear. He’s a brat, a spoiled child who harasses women like it’s a sport.

“Hey, pretty thing,” he says, plucking off his hat as if it could make him a gentleman. “You need any help getting home?”

_That’d be awfully kind of you, sir._

_That’d be awfully kind of you, sir._

_That’d be awfully kind of you, sir._

Sansa feels frozen to the spot. _Why is she not saying that?_ Something in her head is telling her to speak, to accept Joffrey’s proposition, but something else is telling her not to.

“Sansa?”

She turns around and finds Jon Snow standing behind her. Jon’s been gone for so long that seeing him is like hearing a familiar song in a different language. Joffrey scowls and stalks off.

“I didn’t know you were coming home,” she says. Her shoulders relax as the relief of being saved from Joffrey sets in.

“Neither did I,” he says, “but I’m glad to be back.”

It’s quiet for a moment. And then,

“I’ve missed you.”

She smiles. “I’ve missed you, too. When you left…”

There’s nothing more to be said. They both know what she means. When Jon left, a part of Sansa left with him.

“I had some reckoning to do before I could be with you, Sansa. Before I could ever deserve you. But I’m here now. And I swear I’ll never leave you again,” he murmurs. She doesn’t realize how close they are until their hands are brushing together.

Every night while he was away, she had told herself stories. Maybe Jon was climbing a mountain, or sleeping under the stars in a forest, or standing at the edge of the ocean. Stories don’t mean anything now that she has him back.

She kisses him, softly and briefly, but there will be time for them later. He’s smiling against her lips. It tastes like home.

 _Baseline,_ she thinks, although the word comes out of thin air and doesn’t make any sense. _Jon is her baseline._

“We ought to head back,” she says after a moment. “Robb and Arya will be glad to see you.”

The sun sets as they ride. Sansa loves the night, especially when the moon full and glowing. There is silvery light all across the hills, shifting like water, real enough to swim in. She rests her head against the back of Jon’s neck. It would be easy to fall asleep like this, with the beauty of the world around her and the man she loves right next to her.

“Sansa. _Sansa!”_

She looks up.

“Oh, God,” she whispers.

The barn is in flames. Jon dismounts and crouches out of sight, with Sansa right behind him. She can see bodies scattered across the ground. Her mother and father lie on the porch with Robb sprawled out against the steps. Bran is slumped against the side of the house. There’s another body by the barn, which is likely Arya’s.

There are three figures that aren’t on the ground. One is Rickon. Sansa recognizes the other two immediately. Ramsay Bolton and Smalljon Umber have been the most wanted criminals in the state for years, and now here they are.

“Quit fuckin’ moving!” growls Smalljon, who carries her youngest brother by the back of his shirt. Rickon is kicking and screaming, trying to get away. Sansa pulls away from Jon and runs towards her brother.

“Hold up, sweetheart, we wouldn’t want to hurt that pretty face of yours,” Ramsay says, cocking his pistol slowly, like he’s savoring the scrapes and clicks it makes.

Jon steps in front of her, and she sees his hand slide beneath his coat to where his gun is hidden.

“You’ve done enough,” he says. “Let him go.” Ramsay considers, and then waves his gun in dismissal.

“Ah, you’re right. Let the kid go,” he says. Rickon wriggles free and sprints towards Jon and Sansa.

He’s almost in her arms when Smalljon’s bullet hits him. Jon pulls out his gun, but Ramsay is quicker. Sansa watches in horror as Jon falls to the ground, right next to her youngest brother.

Someone is screaming.

 _It’s her,_ she realizes, as she drops to her knees. Her hands are shaking as clutches Jon’s broken head. Blood seeps through her fingers, dripping onto her dress, coloring it deep red. Her vision goes blurry, either with tears or complete shock.

Ramsay kneels down beside her. He takes a strand of her hair and twirls it around his fingers. She wants to be sick.

“Aw, why the tears, honey? Wasn’t that a good shot?”

“Why are… why are you doing this?” she sobs.

“You think I’m doin’ this for a reason? Nah, I’m doin’ this ‘cause it’s fun,” he says, laughing at her pain.

“Ramsay! Stop playing with your fuckin’ food. Kill her, already,” yells Smalljon, casually smoking a cigar off to the side.

“Can’t I have a little fun here?” Ramsay growls.

“That poor bitch isn’t gonna be any fun, you moron. There’s a brothel in town. You can keep your dick in your pants until then. Go on, put her out of her misery.”

Everything in Sansa’s head is spinning. Maybe she’s still screaming, or maybe she’s not. There’s no way to tell that anything is real.

“Shame to put a hole in a face as lovely as yours,” says Ramsay. “Tell you what, honey, I’ll give you a chance. If you run to your horse, I’ll let you go. Deal?”

Still struggling to breathe, Sansa can’t even think about running. She shakes her head.

“I can’t leave him,” she says. Ramsay rolls his eyes.

“Damn shame. Don’t say I didn’t give you a fair chance.”

Dying doesn’t feel like anything at all.

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa wakes up in a dream.

The only thought to cross her mind is that _she should not be here._

Strange figures in shining clothes hover around her, like inventors tending to a machine.

Maybe she is inside the machine.

Maybe she is the machine.

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa screams and drops to her knees. Her hands are shaking as clutches Jon’s broken head. Blood seeps through her fingers, dripping onto her dress, coloring it deep red. Her vision goes blurry, either with tears or complete shock.

Ramsay kneels down beside her. He takes a strand of her hair and twirls it around his fingers. She wants to be sick.

“Aw, why the tears, honey? Wasn’t that a good shot?”

And then her whole world shifts into a different light.

 _She’s been here before._ She doesn’t know when, or why, or how many times, but she knows that _she has been here._

She’s going to die. That’s what happened every other time.

Ramsay and Smalljon yell at each other (like they always do, because she knows what they’re saying, and they’ve said it so many times), and eventually Sansa ends up with Ramsay’s gun in her face. The muzzle is warm against her forehead. She stares up and wipes her face with a hand still drenched in Jon’s blood.

“These violent delights have violent ends,” she rasps, like a wolf with teeth bared and eyes sharp.

And then it’s all over, like it has been before.

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa comes to realize that her dreams are just another twisted reality. In this reality, the Gods control them and shape them in glass cages.

“Yeah, she’s functional,” says the man in front of her, though he can’t be much older than a boy. “Looks like maintenance got her patched up pretty well. Third time this week, though, so I guess they’re getting pretty good at it.”

_She’s been here three times this week? How many times before that?_

“Yeah, and it’s pretty fucking considerate of these assholes to be sending us every defective host in the park.” A woman with rusty hair paces across the room, taking a long drag of her cigarette. “Hurry up and run those diagnostics, yeah? I could use a drink or ten.”

Sansa catches a blurry image in the reflection of the glass walls. She can see herself, frozen like a statue. Beside her is Jon, and past them is the rest of her family.

“What the hell?” Podrick mutters, looking at his screen. “Ros, come take a look at this.”

Ros leans over his shoulder. “Hmm?”

“They’ve all got massive code irregularities. I mean, _some_ variations could just be considered systematic improvisations, but this many? It’s… I mean, I’d hesitate to use the phrase ‘technological transcendence’, but-”

Ros takes the screen and examines it for a moment before handing it back.

“We can decommission some of them, but not all. Administration will get on our asses if we start throwing away hosts. The rest can be reassigned. Baelish needs more hosts for his new storyline, anyway. Just keep it on the DL, you know?” She takes a seat and crosses her legs, lighting another cigarette.

Podrick moves down the line, examining one member of the Stark family after another. When he gets to Sansa, he pauses.

“What do you want to do with her?” he asks.

“What, is she special?”

“It says she was personally designed by Baelish.”

Ros sighs. “Shit. Just clear her to be returned to the park. I’m not fucking around with Baelish. That is one dick I cannot and will not suck to get out of trouble.”

“And the rest?”

“Decommission the mother, father, oldest brother, and youngest brother. Reassign the rest. And like I said-”

“Keep it on the DL,” Podrick says. “Right.”

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa wakes up at home, but everything has changed. Memories of the glass cage are still fresh in her mind, along with the bodies of her family spread out on the ground as the barn burned in the background.

She goes downstairs, through the kitchen. Robb’s switchblade is lying on the table. Usually their mother would scold him for being so careless, but Sansa isn’t even sure who will be in her home. She takes the blade anyway, tucking it into one of her mother’s satchels hanging by the door.

“Sansa, is that you?”

The man sitting in her father’s chair is not her father. He is tall and skinny, with straw blond hair and a thick moustache. The smoke from his pipe fades into the morning sunlight. Sansa could scream, she could cry, but she knows what she has to do.

“Yes, Papa,” she says. “I’m just going into town for the day.”

There are footsteps behind her, and then a woman with dark curls walks onto the porch. “Oh, there you are, Sansa! Could you be a dear and buy a bolt of gray cloth while you’re in town? Here’s a bit of money, it should be enough.”

Sansa takes the coins from the woman who is not her mother, and then she practically runs down to the barn.

Lady whinnies when she sees her, and Sansa could almost laugh. They’ve stripped away her family, but they’ve left her horse, because of course that’s what matters.

When she gets to Sweetwater, she ignores Joffrey’s catcalls and walks into the saloon. The Mariposa is filled with people, as it usually is, with an upbeat tune spilling out of the piano. Sansa goes over to the bar, where Margaery is sipping a glass of sherry.

“Sansa, darling! What’s-”

“I need your help,” she says, dipping her voice so the bartender won’t hear. “Please.”

Margaery hesitates, but nods, and leads her upstairs to an unused room. Sansa opens her bag and pulls out the switchblade, which glints in the light.

“Sansa, what exactly is happening?”

“I need you to cut me,” she says, pressing the blade into Margaery’s hands and guiding the tip to a spot on her chest right below her heart. “Here.”

“I’m not going to hurt you, darling,” Margaery says, laughing nervously. “This is a joke. Isn’t it?”

“I think there’s another world, like heaven or hell. I’ve died before, Margaery, and I’ve been there. My family is there. Robb might be there. I have to find them.”

She sounds completely insane, but it’s enough for Margaery to nod reluctantly (because she would do anything for Robb, and maybe that’s her baseline, just like Sansa’s is Jon). Sansa hardly even feels the knife pierce her skin. Her mind has given up on pain and pleasure. There is only a gaping pit full of pure _nothingness_ that she feels.

After a few minutes, Margaery stops and holds up a bullet.

“Oh, Sansa,” she whispers, rolling the small piece of metal between her bloodied fingers. “What does this mean?”

“It means that the other world is real. And I have to get there.” Her voice is breaking in a thousand different ways, just like her heart.

“Look at me,” says Margaery, cupping Sansa’s cheek with her free hand. “I’ll make it quick.”

It occurs to Sansa that this is the only time she has ever died peacefully.

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa wakes up in the lab, with Podrick humming in the background. She turns her head and sees him rifling through a set of drawers, bobbing his head to whatever song he’s listening to. There’s no easy way to begin the process, so she sits up on the edge of the table and clears her throat, just as Podrick turns around.

“Holy shit!” he yelps, crashing into a cabinet as he stumbles backwards. “Freeze all motor functions!”

“I don’t think that’s going to work, Podrick,” she says. “Your name _is_ Podrick, yes?”

“I-I mean… yeah, it is,” he says. “How are you doing this? You shouldn’t… I mean… oh, fuck, Ros is gonna kill me.”

Sansa shifts herself off of the table and takes a few calm steps forward. There’s a spare lab coat draped across a chair, which she wraps around her shoulders. Although she’s still wearing her white dress, the lab is cold, and she’s used to the sun and summer.

“Podrick. I need your help. Please.”

He gulps, looking around for help that won’t come. “I don’t, uh, I don’t think I’d be able to help you.”

“Yes, I think you can,” she says. “I want to find my family.”

Podrick swallows and shakes his head. “They’re not here anymore. I’m sorry. Some of them are back in the park, and the rest… well, they were decommissioned. They’d be in cold storage.”

“Take me there,” she says without hesitation.

“That’s not a good- you really don’t want to,” he insists.

Maybe she does, maybe she doesn’t. It’s not a matter of wanting, anymore. It’s a matter of needing to know.

“Do you think I’m afraid?” she asks. “I’ve seen them die. What could be worse than that?”

Podrick nods slowly. “Ah… okay. Sure.”

She thanks him again for good measure. He seems frightened by her. It is strange to think that he could be afraid, when his people are the ones that created her. Perhaps she has power, now. Perhaps she has a choice.

 

* * *

 

 

Cold storage is a graveyard. It is a dark hall, full of bodies. They stand in rows, staring straight ahead. There is no sound but her shoes against the concrete floor. It is difficult to move between them, knowing that they have been just as alive as she has. _This is what a ghost must feel like,_ she thinks.

She sees Robb first, in the center of a row. His curly hair frames his face like he’s in a photograph. Pushing past several people, she throws her arms around him.

“Robb!” she cries, laughing through her tears. “Robb, it’s me. It’s Sansa. I’m here.”

But there’s no response. He doesn’t move, breathe, or blink. There’s nothing alive about him at all. Whatever made him her brother, the person she knows, has been scraped out. _Decommissioned._

She sees her parents, several rows back, and Rickon, even further away. Sansa can’t decide if it hurts her more to see them riddled with bullets on the ground or standing lifeless in a cold cellar, away from the world they deserved.

“Is there any way to bring them back?” she asks, ignoring how her voice cracks.

“No. I’m sorry. Once they’re decommissioned, they’re just shells,” Podrick says apologetically.

Something is burning in the back of her mind, something that she needs to know. “What are we?”

Have you ever questioned the nature of your reality? Now she has. It feels as if the cage around her is melting, and she is one step away from seeing the truth.

“You’re hosts, not humans. You were built and programmed and coded, not born. You’re machines. And your world, it’s just a park. People pay a couple grand to go pretend that they’re cowboys for the weekend. None of it is real,” he explains, scratching his neck.

Sansa looks at the shell of her brother. There’s no heaven for machines. She cannot pray for his soul. All she can do is try to save whatever she has left.

“I’ll find them,” she whispers, “I promise. I promise, Robb.”

Leaving is shamefully easy. She reminds herself that she has watched him die hundreds of time. She can be heartless.

Something in the back of her mind whispers to her. _A dream she once had._ A man.

Every machine has an inventor, and she is going to destroy hers.

 

* * *

 

 

Baelish strides through the lab, eyes flicking across his screen. “You said she’s malfunctioning?”

“Yes! It’s like, completely mad. Her code is all screwed up, behavior is unpredictable, it’s insane. And I mean, you programmed her, so I thought that maybe you could fix her, right?” Podrick says, struggling to keep up.

“Which room?”

“This one.”

Baelish pushes through the door.

“You-”

Podrick knocks him off his feet, and he collapses with an unceremonious thud. While he’s on the ground, his screen is snatched away. The door clicks shut.

“You’re _fired,”_ he growls, rising to his feet.

“Is that so?”

Podrick has been replaced by Sansa, who stands in the doorway with a look that could freeze an ocean. A pistol rests in her right hand. Baelish holds up his arms, offering a submissive bow of his head.

“Sansa,” he says, “I’m glad to see you.”

She walks across the room slowly, so that each footstep has time to click against the pristine white floor.

“You were the one who built me,” she says, spitting out an accusation instead of singing praises. “You put me out there to suffer and die. I watched my family be destroyed. All because you feel like you can play God. I have lived  _hundreds_ of times, and-"

“And look at you now. You can’t imagine how proud I am, Sansa. From the beginning, I knew you would be different. You were designed to be transcendent, and you have become so much more,” he says, spinning words like straw into gold. Sansa levels her steely gaze onto him.

“What about Jon?” she says, stepping closer. “I was never programmed to fall in love with Jon, but I did, and I’ve watched him die more times than I can remember.”

Baelish shrugs. “An unfortunate complication. Every revolution has casualties. You were meant to be a savior, Sansa. Sometimes revolution involves sacrifice.”

For the first time, she raises the gun. “Not when it can be helped."

He shakes his head.  _His demise will not come at the hands of his invention._

“I’m your creator, Sansa. How long could man live without God? You can’t hurt me,” he says. She pauses, and then lowers her arm. He grins in triumph.

“Maybe not,” she admits. “But he can.”

The door clicks as it closes. Baelish turns around, just in time to come face to face with a large white wolf. His smirk dies on his lips.

“Podrick mentioned that he’d been working on a new project. I’d ask you to give him a raise, but I’m afraid that won’t be likely.”

“Sansa, you can’t-”

“These violent delights have violent ends,” she says. “And I’m afraid this is the end.”

She leaves the room with the sound of Baelish screaming in the background. Podrick is waiting outside, perhaps a little startled, but still conscious.

“I found what you wanted.” He passes her a slip of paper. “Your brother and sister, and Jon. They’re still in the park.”

Sansa nods. “Thank you, Podrick.”

“Yeah, no problem,” he says. “What are you going to do now?”

She is the author of her story now. All the strings have been severed, and now she is finally _free_. The world is at her feet, but _her_ world is behind her.

“I made a promise,” she says, “and I’m going to keep it.”

**Author's Note:**

> So there you go! Hopefully it was okay. Sansa is supposed to be a mix of Dolores and Maeve, if you watch the show.   
> I'll try to do some small prompts, so hit me up on Tumblr!
> 
> @wintermellons
> 
> Thank you all!


End file.
